Battle Beneath the Trees
by Cudae
Summary: "Battle beneath the trees in Mirkwood..."-Appendix B, the Return of the King. This is the story of a warrior who sees his world fall apart as his people defend their homes against the forces of Dol Guldur. R for war violence and death.
1. The Beginning

Title: Battle Beneath the Trees

Author: Cúdae

Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's creations as my own.

Summary: "Battle beneath the trees in Mirkwood…"—Appendix B, The Return of the King.  This is the story of a young warrior who sees his world slowly fall apart as his people defend their homes against the forces of Dol Guldur.

Warnings: Fighting and death.

Author's Note: This is based on the sentence "Battle beneath the trees in Mirkwood…" in Appendix B, The Tale of Years, the Great Years, on March 15 in the back of the Return of the King.  It is my design that you never find out the main character's name.

Chapter One: Before the Fight

***

            He balanced on the branch of a tree and stared intensely at the ever-approaching line of orcs.  He knew they were orcs despite the shadow that surrounded them constantly.  He heard them, he smelt them, and he could taste them on the wind.  The trees spoke of them and the ground murmured against them.  The sky above the canopy of leaves was growing dark before the sun set in the west.  He felt within him the approaching evil and he knew, but did not understand, that many would fall to it.  He secured his weapons and began his descent back into the preparations for the fight that was now unavoidable.  He paused only a moment to press himself against the tree and listen to its wood song.

            On the ground the last provisions were being made before the battle began.  Men were sharpening swords or knives and arrow tips and stringing and restringing their bows in a nervous habit.  The women who knew the art of war were doing the same.  The other women and the healers readied their medicines and potions that would be used to treat the wounded.  Water that had been drawn up from the Forest River days ago and loaded into barrels once used for wine was taken within the underground palace.  Grain from the far fields was packed tightly and stored in the deep places.  Vegetables and fruits from the gardens had been dried and preserved and stored with the grain and water.  Meat was salted and dried in strips before, like the other foods, being stored away inside the palace.  There would be enough food to withstand a siege.

            The warriors from the southern villages were well used to these bombardments of evil, for often their homes were attacked.  From the northern villages came the most healers and those who were skilled in craft.  The western warriors were strong and proud and had seen much already.  From the east came the people who hid themselves in the trees and stayed silent and unmoving when the orcs came.  The people from the main city of the Woodland Realm were skilled in fighting and had been taught since childhood to be ready for a siege.  They would defend Mirkwood until their last breath.

            He looked around him at the people.  Smiths were hastily shoeing horses and crafting extra blades.  Weavers were adding the finishing touches to their cloaks and blankets.   Healers were hurrying to make sure everything was in place.  Potters were stacking their creations to take down into the palace.  Warriors were preparing themselves for the fight.  Sentries and lookouts in the trees called and whistled warnings to each other.  Children were filling water skins.  Someone was singing.  He walked through the mess and tangle of people young and old.  Other warriors smiled grimly at him.  Healers watched him, noticing his movements and wondering if they would see him later in pain before them.  His eyes fell on a young girl.  She held a knife in her hand.  Its blade glinted in the fading light.  He knew immediately that she was one of the southern villagers.  All their women fought, for if they did not the southern villages would have been destroyed long ago.  A seasoned warrior sat against the bole of a tree.  His eyes were closed and he twirled an arrow in his hands.  A shiver ran down his spine and he looked away.

***

            The King of Mirkwood looked at his wife, Aduial.  She bit her lip and asked the same question she asked him every time the city was attacked: Why?  He had no answer, not the real answer.  He could go through the reasons that he had recited to her, his children, and practically everyone else in the kingdom for as long as he had been king.  Those answers he had thought were real.  He had come to learn that those answers he recited were not the answers people wanted.  Aduial faced him and cried, "Something will happen!  This is different!  Has anything been heard of Lorien?"  Thranduil did not answer.  Though long it had been since any of his people had journeyed to Lothlorien, the two lands made sure that they were at least aware of the other's presence and well being.  It angered and saddened Thranduil that he had been thus sundered from Lothlorien.  

            "Thranduil…" Aduial's voice was barely above a whisper.  He turned to her once more and answered quietly, "Yes, my queen?"  She raised her eyes to meet his.  When she spoke her voice was hoarse, as though about to cry.  She said, "This will be the death of me."  Thranduil shook his head and replied in a voice as calm as possible, "No, you will be safe here, within these walls.  They are strong, nothing will harm you."  Tears welled and leaked out of the queen's eyes.  "You do not understand…" she said, "Already, Legolas has gone and not returned.  And Leithian, my only daughter, has married a warrior who will not live to see his own child.  Tirn is dead.  Long dead…  Dútawar and Taurost will die and it will slay me.  You do not understand."  Thranduil brought his wife close in a tight embrace.  "Do not say such things," he said, "Tirn is in peace.  Legolas will return.  Leithian and her husband will be fine.  Dútawar and Taurost will live and they will be honored for their bravery."  The queen said nothing in reply.  

***

            He walked silently through the trees close to the city, not daring to venture out too far.  It was almost time for the first of the spring floods from the lowest sides of the mountains to come wet the dry streambeds.  He brushed his hand against an oak tree.  It was old and gnarled.  It had seen much in its lifetime.  He lingered by it, running his hand over its bark.  He wondered how many droughts, how many rainy seasons, how many fierce winters followed by hot summers this tree had seen.  He wondered if this tree had held a young child learning to climb or a warrior in hiding or a sentry on the watch.  The more he thought of the tree, the calmer he became.  The turmoil within him became tranquil and the questions in his mind were silenced.  He started to let himself drift into the dream state but before he could fully detach himself from the present, a sharp cry rang out.  

            It was the call of a commander.  It was the call of the commander, the King.  It was time to form ranks.  

            He went flew back down the paths to the southern side of the city.  He was still considered young, being no older than the Prince Legolas, but he was more than old enough to fight.  As he made his way to his own commanding officer, he thought of his family.  His sister had been killed in an orc raid when he was still to young to understand and his father was killed not long afterwards.  His mother had never fully recovered.  His friends, they had all taken the same path.  Each of them was a warrior of the Woodland Realm.  Gil-Gambor even earned the privilege to fight under the command of Crown Prince Taurost.  But some of them were dead.  Some of them had gone to aid the southern villages and had died.  Others had gone to the western villages over the winter and starved.  He shuddered at the thought of starving to death.  He knew that whole villages had died that winter, but it had not affected him until his friends went to offer whatever aid they could and did not return.  

            Cúmaen, his commander, organized them, the least experienced in the middle, the most experienced at the front, and the ones with a decent amount of experience at the rear.  Around him, faces were grim or lined with tears.  Beside him was a tall man whose eyes were red.  On his other side was a woman of the northern villages whose face was hard with determination.  He loosed his sword and tightened his grip on his bow.  An early spring flower was blooming nearby.  He took it as a good omen.  He started to reach to pluck it from the ground, but stopped.  Why should I, he thought, take this flower's life when my own may be taken this day?  He straightened and reached back for an arrow.  All around him others were doing the same.  Those who fought only with the blade drew them and held them ready in the guard position.  Those few with spears were also stood ready.

            The cavalry was ready at the front.  Among them were many of the southern villagers whose horses were trained to make the escape and to stand calm in the face of terror.  The horses whinnied and snorted in fear and impatience.  He felt a shadow of fear grow on his own heart.  He regretted becoming a warrior.  He regretted everyday that he had spent learning to hunt and to kill without a thought.  He was an assassin.  His mother had begged him not to.  She had cried and tried to hold him back by force.  She feared for him.  He feared for her.  She is safe in the palace with the queen, he told himself firmly.  She will be fine.  

            At the head of all the lines of warriors was the King.  His horse was white and he rode without saddle.  His golden hair was shining in the shadowy light and the wind caught it and blew it back.  He was their King; they would rally to him.  Near him was the Crown Prince Taurost.  He leaned down towards the horse, prepared to lead his cavalry in at a run.  A hood that hid his face as well covered his dark hair.  Near him was his younger brother, Prince Dútawar.  Dútawar sat straight and proud.  The wind caught his gold hair and twisted it like whips.  He showed no emotion.  The King called the command for his host to ride forward.

            He dared one look back as Cúmaen led them forward after the cavalry had gone.  Gathered by the palace walls were all the women, healers, injured men, and the children.  They were waving and crying and yelling wishes of luck.  Silent by the palace's magical door stood Aduial, Queen of Mirkwood.  No tears were seen on her face, nor cry was on her lips.  Only in her eyes could her thought be read.  In her eyes he saw pure fear.  He focused on the march.  He could already smell blood in the air.

***

            Aduial had resolved that she would not cry as she watched her husband and sons leave her.  Already she had screamed and cried and begged Thranduil not to lead Mirkwood this day.  Everything she saw seemed like a bad omen.  Life was a bad omen.  Already she had suffered her son's death.  He had been killed so horribly.  She bit her lip until she tasted blood.  Tirn they had called him.  Watcher.  He was ever alert, yet he had been killed from behind by an orc.  What had so occupied his attention that day that he had not sensed the evil approaching?  After that her youngest son had ceased speaking.  Thranduil had sought to distract him many times, but nothing had worked.  His pain was almost more unbearable than the pain she felt from her son's death.  Then Thranduil had sent him and that young southern leader to Rivendell with the message that Smeagol had escaped.  She had never hated any time more than the time between Legolas's departure and the time when she received the message he had arrived safely.  But no more had come.

            Her sons, her daughter, all of them were caught up in this war.  Leithian had married a warrior.  Taurost led the forces by his father's side and Dútawar did the same.  She hated everyday that another village was attacked and driven back into the city.  She hated each day that she went to the healers' building and smelt the blood and heard the cries of agony.  She hated seeing the young ones killed before they lived.  And most of all she hated Dol Guldur.  Everyday, every moment, even while she slept, she cursed Sauron and his allies and servants.  She swore that if it were in her power she would destroy them all herself.

            Amid the lines and ranks of warriors, the queen picked out those whom she knew.  As she gazed on them, she could not help but feel the tiniest of thrills rise within her.  So proud and fearless they were.  So determined…  Her husband, the king, looked so majestic on his mount.  Taurost, her son, was ready.  Dútawar was like his father, tall and stern.  She resisted the urge to call out like the others.  Suddenly, something very much like panic hit her as she watched them set off.  She felt so suddenly fearful for them—all of them.  She watched the southern villagers set off and could only think of how young they all were and how many were to die.  She watched her family and thought of her dead son and her lost son.  She watched the seasoned warriors who were hardened and fierce.  She watched the warriors who had never been in battle before—they were still children!

***

            A strange smell was drifting towards them.  So strange it was, yet so familiar.  They could not quite put a name to it.  The smell was like the trees, but also like the flames of the torches that burned at feasts.  And even as this thought entered their minds, someone cried out, "The forest is burning!"  And the shadow of fear that was already on their hearts grew with the threat to the trees.

***

To be continued…


	2. In the Midst

Title: Battle Beneath the Trees

Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's creations.

Author's Note: Again, you will not find out the main character's name.  Thanks for the reviews everyone.  Now why would any of you think that I wouldn't be continuing?  I can't give up on this now.

The "~" mark denotes a flashback that should be in italics.  The last time I tried to use italics, that did not appear, so I've done this instead.

Warnings: War violence, death, and dead bodies (not too gruesome, but there all the same).  

Chapter Two: In the Midst

***

            Cúmaen led them south, farther south than even Prince Taurost's cavalry.  They were to fight off the orcs and spiders and other creatures of darkness there.  He could remember the days when evil had not been so present in their lives.  He remembered going with his mother south to the village of Harndor to see the dancers and hear the singers.  A wood of pine trees, he remembered well, surrounded Harndor.  Before orc parties had raided it constantly, the village had been wealthy and prosperous.  They had dancers that everyone marveled to see.  The leading family had come from a long line of warriors and claimed to be able to trace the family back to the First Age.  He remembered all too well the day when the King sent Prince Dútawar and twenty warriors to evacuate Harndor's dwindling numbers.  He did not know the whole story, only that in the end, the people of Harndor were living in a refugee camp on what used to be archery fields.  Harndor was a tragedy, and one that did not end with the evacuation of its people. 

            The farther south his party went, the more he felt to presence of evil and with it fear.  He was more afraid than he had ever been.  The fear on him was more than fear for himself.  He worried for his mother, for the warriors around him, for the royal family, for the refugees, and for the healers who would weave their way without weapon through the battle to reach the wounded.  He drew back his bow and felt the slightest pang of regret for becoming a warrior.  He could have worked within the palace as a servant as his mother had wished, but he had chosen what he believed a more honorable profession.  The moment orc cries reached his ears; the order to fire came from Cúmaen.  Some arrows found their mark; others fell useless to the ground or stuck in a tree.  Soon the fight would come too close for bows to be of much use.  His sword was ready in its scabbard.  He was scarcely aware that the undergrowth of the forest floor was thinning.

            The sword was not heavy in his hand as the seasoned warriors said and as it had been in the past.  Instead, it was not there.  He felt no weight, for the blade became part of his body.  It was as though his own blood pulsed through the cold metal.  Each thought that entered his mind, the sword shared with him.  His training had become instinct--instinct guided by innate instinct.  Still he did not notice that the underbrush thinned.  But as of yet, that mattered little.

***

            The queen sat in her chamber, not desiring any part in what happened outside the palace walls.  Outside she knew that the others stood along this side of the river and yelled to the nearest warriors.  Some only watched, as she knew the wounded warriors did.  They wished to watch their comrades fight even though they could not.  She did not like the combat.  It had taken nearly all her strength to see her family off.  She had been caught between screaming and bursting into tears for something--something other than shadow of fear on her heart--told her not all would return.

            She knew there were things that she could be doing.  She knew that she could be of use in many places.  The healers needed as much help as they could get whether one had any experience in the healing arts of not.  In the throne room, food was being served.  In the banquet halls and dancing rooms, refugees and citizens of the city camped.  The king had ordered all within the palace for he greatly feared the power of the orcs.  In the dungeons and storerooms, the food and water supply was monitored and guarded.  In the halls, families waited anxiously for news of their loved ones.  The people needed a leader now, but Aduial did not wish to leave her own chamber.  She feared going out, for then the world would come in.  She feared more than that the stern faces of messengers from the battlefields.  Sometimes they smiled gravely, other times they frowned sadly, and still other times they showed no emotion at all.

_~"Your Majesty… I come with the news that the body of Prince Tirn was found in a clearing today."_

_            "What do you mean?"_

_            "I regret to inform you that Prince Tirn is no longer living."~_

She did not remember what had happened after the messenger left her.  She did not remember much of that time at all.  Only she remembered Leithian's screams and Legolas's silence.  Those things had frightened her.  Tirn's death had frightened her.  When Thranduil sent Legolas and Thalion, the young leader of a southern village, to Rivendell, she cried and pleaded with him to recall his decision.  But her fears left her for a time when Legolas sent word from Rivendell that he had arrived safely, though he could not say the same for his partner.  But nearly three months after that, without another word from her son, one of those grimly smiling messengers came to her.

            _~"Your Majesty, earlier this week the body of an elf was found in the mountains.  This elf had been caught in a rockslide and was so broken that we could not discern who he or she was.  This elf is most likely your son, Prince Legolas."_

_            "No…"_

_            "I am sorry, your Majesty."~_

Aduial did not believe him; two messengers from Rivendell had gone missing at about the same time.  Taurost thought the elf to be one of them, not Legolas.  Legolas had dark hair, this elf was blond, and Legolas carried a knife, not a sword.  That had been enough to satisfy Taurost, but not Aduial.  She waited always for the proof that her child was truly gone forever from her.

            Suddenly, someone rapped on her door.  "Come in," she called, dashing tears from her eyes.  A servant girl bowed to her and waited for permission to speak.  Aduial gave a nod and the girl said hoarsely, "Fire.  Fire and fear, your Majesty.  The fighters have been driven back and the orcs are setting fires."

            Aduial drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them.  She let a long breath of combined anger, fear, and relief.  Till the end of time she would fear a knock at her door.  Then she looked up at the servant again and asked softly, "Will the river and the bridge protect us?"  The girl bowed her head and said, "I am not the person to ask such things of, your Majesty."  Aduial sighed and closed her eyes.

***

            The fighting had become fierce.  In some cases, hand to hand literally meant punches and strikes and kicks.  He still had his sword and though it was slowly becoming dull and the real day was starting to fade away, he fought on.  The trees to the west of him were burning and he heard screams of animal, foul creature, and elf from them.  But he could not pay them any heed, for he had his own problems to attend to.  Before him was an orc taller and broader than most and his scimitar was not dull by any means.  He was fighting harder than he had been and he felt blood going down his arm.  But strangely he felt no pain from whatever wound he had.

            The orc was laughing at him.  It was a harsh sound.  He knew he was being driven back and being cornered.  He knew this but could do nothing to correct it.  He was losing his focus as the fire approached him and his fellow warriors fell.  The orc did not fail to see this weakness, but did not hurry to go in for the kill.  The orc seemed to be enjoying watching the elf falter.  The orc led him on for a while, driving him back, stabbing at places where the elf's guard was open, but always pulling back before striking him.  Finally, just before the elf fell to the ground in defeat he lashed out at his legs, knocking the elf down, but not seriously wounding him, for the blade had turned and the flat side had hit the elf.  But the orc failed to realize this.

            He lay still on the earth and cocked his head to the side.  He was attempting something he was told never to do.  He wondered if in this position, the orc would think his neck was broken.  He hoped the orc would disappear so he could make his way towards the remainder of his troop.  Play dead, he told himself.  The orc doesn't know you aren't dead.  He held his breath and closed his eyes.  He listened to the earth for the sound of the orc leaving him.  And he was rewarded.  Soon the orc went off to find some other prey.  Cautiously he opened one eye, then the other.  So focused had he been in that instant on his attacker that he did not notice that no other elf was near him.  In the distance, above the sound of the fires, he heard more strange animal cries.  They were the orc war cries.  

            His first instinct was to run.  He did not hesitate in following that instinct either.  He paused only to grab a nearby stone with hopes of whetting his blade before he had to fight again.  The stone wasn't the right type, but it would have to serve.  He followed the path of the trees and the path of the brushwood.  He gradually became aware that the undergrowth was disappearing and the scent of pine filling the air.  He ran on with no other purpose than to put as much distance between him and the orcs as possible.

            His arm was beginning to throb without mercy.  He dared not look for fear of seeing the wound and losing his already slipping concentration.  Tree roots reached out to trip him and tree trunks moved to block his way.  At long last, his path took him to a large clearing.  He paused just within the bordering trees, listening.  He heard only distant flames crackling.  He stepped out to survey the place.  There were ruins of buildings and trees cast down and burnt.  Glancing up at the sky, he went towards one of the buildings.  He did not know what drew him there or what he would find.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped that maybe someone was still living in this place and would help him.  The blood from his arm had slowed and clotted, but it hurt terribly.  For the first time, he felt hungry and tired.  He did not want to fight anymore.   

            Carefully, he picked his way over burnt timbers and fallen stones until he came to the remains of what had once been a small home.  The dim flash of metal caught his eye and he moved towards it.  With one hand he pushed away some decaying wood and loose stones.  There was a knife.  His eyes followed the blade to the hilt and to what held it.  He stood fixated with horror at the sight of the skeletal hand that came from beneath a large stone and grasped the knife.  For long minutes he stood there, staring wide-eyed.  Then, regaining his senses, he knelt down and pressed his thumb against the blade.  It was still quite sharp.  Grimacing, he pried open the dead hand and took the dagger.  Then he replaced the wood to hide the hand.

***

            The Crown Prince crouched low on his horse and aimed blows at his enemy.  He entwined his fingers in the mane and stretched to reach.  Arrows whistled by his head.  His cloak billowed up behind him in a gust of hot air that warned him of approaching flame.  He checked his mount and twisted him round to get away from the fire.  He sat up to survey the scene around him for half a second before crouching down again.  In that half second, an arrow hit him in the back.  He lurched forward and fell hard against his horse's neck.  Twisting his whole hand into the mane of his horse, he shut his eyes against the pain racing up his back and into his skull.  He let the horse carry him back towards the palace.

***

            He sheathed his sword and held the knife out in front of him.  It was the only blade that would be of any use to him now.  He went quickly through the forest, away from the ruined village in the clearing.  Though tired and hungry, he knew he had to move.  With orcs and spiders on all sides and fire fast approaching it was unsafe to stay in any one place for too long.  He hoped he was not going towards the flames.  He hoped that he went towards his troop of warriors under Cúmaen's command.  He had lost them.  

            The wood around him was silent.  The only sound to be heard was his panting.  It made him uneasy in mind and heart.  It was clear that this part of the forest had seen fighting this day, for arrows and broken blades littered the ground and stuck in singed trees.  He went more slowly through here, wondering where the warriors who had fought here had gone.  He saw neither body of elf nor orc.  What had happened?  As he neared the end of this stretch of land, he saw something that curdled his blood.  He froze and screamed so loud that his voice went hoarse.  Before him he saw something he had never seen before.  He saw something that made him sick and angry.  He saw a new reason for hating the orcs.

***

To be continued…


	3. Mother, Am I Dying?

Title: Battle Beneath the Trees

Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's works as my own.

Author's Notes: VERY IMPORTANT:  The rating of this story is now R.  Read the warnings and take heed of them!  This chapter will also be a bit shorter to do the amount of slightly disturbing material for both you and me.

Warnings: Violence, blood, fire, and POV death.  POV death means you are seeing death from the dying person's point of view.  As this is done rarely, I hope you will find it interesting.  

Chapter Three: Mother, Am I Dying?

***

            The healer saw the horse coming and saw the person leaning against the animal's neck, a dark shaft protruding from his back.  The healer was at the horse's side in seconds.  Gently, he lifted the elf from the back of the large horse.  The wounded warrior was none other than Prince Taurost.  The healer hastened to the small building that housed the wounded.  

***

            As he ran from that place the only thing he saw was the image of a head on a tree branch.  It was displayed as though it were a trophy.  It was the head of Cúmaen, his own commander.  He retched as he ran and he yelled for help.  He was running towards the flames, but he did not know where else to go.  North was his only choice.  He wanted to get back to the palace, to forget about this and lock himself away in a deep room and never look upon the world again.  He was heedless of his arm now and had long ago cast away the stone he had taken in hopes of sharpening his sword.  His bow, too, he had cast away in a rage of madness.  In his hand only the dagger he had taken from the ruined village remained.  He did not watch the area around him, nor the ground below him, nor the trees above him.  If orc or spider came, he would not care.  As far as he knew, it would be better to die than to fight a war he was losing already.

            The air grew hot.  He knew for sure that flames awaited him now.  He heard no cry over the crackling of the fire.  He soon saw nothing but red and orange and yellow and blue and a thousand other colors mixed in.  His skin was burning and his clothes were about to burst into flame.  He wished to seek his end in the flames that lay across his path.  But that was not his fate, for just as he was to become a living ball of fire, he found the path through and came to the other side.

            He fell to the ground; a burnt image of what was once an elven warrior.  All around him, the fighting was fierce.   He could neither hear, nor see.  He could only smell smoke and he could only feel burning.  The only taste in his mouth was that of charred air.  His head spun and his stomach twisted cruelly.  He no longer comprehended anything.  He did know that a healer saw him fall from afar and abandoned his patient to make his way to him.  Neither did he feel himself lifted up and carried towards the palace.  To him, there was nothing.  Not even the burning could he understand now.

***

            The healer hurriedly tried to stop the blood flowing from the Crown Prince's wound.  He gestured to one of the assistants nearby for more bandages and pressed his hands over the wound.  Blood seeped between his fingers.  Taurost was unconscious.  The healer wound the fresh bandages tightly around the prince and cursed under his breath as the blood still leaked through.  Taurost's face was ashen and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.  The healer beckoned another over and together they sought to apply as much pressure as they could on the ugly wound.  Their efforts availed them little.

            Suddenly, one of the field healers, one of those who went through the battle to find the wounded but living, appeared in the door to the small house and called out sharply for someone to help him.  In his arms he held a burned elf.  He was conscious it seemed, but not quite aware.  The healer caring for the Crown Prince glanced up and shook his head sadly.  The probability of this new patient living seemed low.  The healer turned back to his own charge and again vainly tried to stop the blood.  The healer come back from the fields laid his patient nearby and began to cut clothing away and wash the burns and scrapes.  The Crown Prince stirred and groaned faintly, "Nan—Naneth…" ("Mot—Mother…")  It seemed also that the newest patient in the building commonly referred to as the "Blood Room" was becoming more aware of his surroundings.  His eyes lost the distant look and replaced it with one of fear.  The Crown Prince choked and coughed up blood.  The healer watched helplessly as more blood seeped through his fingers and the eyes of Taurost glassed over.

***

_            What is this feeling?  It hurts.  It hurts so badly.  Where is my mother?  Where am I?  What is this?_ _  Why can I not see?  Why is the only sound I hear nothing?  Why can I not breathe?  Why am I choking like this?  Where is my father?  I want to go home.  I want this to stop.  It hurts, Mother…  Where is my brother?  Where is Dútawar?  Is he here?  I thought I heard him.  Have you found Legolas yet, Father?  Is Leithian all right?  Why is Tirn beside me?  He is gone…I know he is.  Why, why can't I make myself get up?  I need air.  I need light.  I want to see.  I want to hear again.  Please…what is happening to me?  Why is everything so dark?  Is that the sea I hear?  I don't live there.  I have never seen it…  What is happening?  Am I dying?  Mother, am I dying?_

***

            The Queen of Mirkwood opened the door and saw the healer standing before her.  His hands were covered in dried blood and his clothes were stained.  He bowed to her and she merely stared at him.  Her mind was racing.  Had he come to ask for help?  That had to be it.  He couldn't be here to tell her… No, they sent messengers for that.  She forced herself to smile and nod the permission for him to speak.  He coughed a bit before saying, "Your Majesty, I have come from the building where the wounded are cared for.  I have…I have come to tell you that… Crown Prince Taurost is dead."  Aduial shook her head and smiled again.  The healer looked down at his blood stained clothes and blood-covered hands.  Suddenly Aduial screamed.  The scream was so raw and animal that the healer stepped back several feet before he knew what he was doing.  The queen fell to her knees and cried such a terrible sound that servants came running to see what was the matter.  When the healer told them of the Crown Prince's death they went quickly to their queen who had fallen silent as suddenly as she had shrieked.  She pushed them away and stared blankly in front of her.  The healer left silently and went back to the "Blood Room."  

            Aduial did not stir until the servants left her.  Then she rose and went to her bed.  But she did not lie down and weep, as women were known to do.  She reached for the knife that was hidden beneath a pillow in case of attack in the night.  She held the blade before her and screamed again.  Then she plunged the knife into the bed and started to tear at the covers until nothing was left of them save scraps of fabric and fibers drifting on the air and covering the bed.  Then she let the knife fall from her hands and she sank down onto the floor.  Then she wept.  One of the servants returned to her and tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away.  She howled and cried and tore at her clothes before finally she ceased movement and tears alone flowed down her face.

***

            The fight outside the palace was not going well for the elves of the Woodland Realm.  The orcs were driving them ever back towards the river and the bridge before the palace.  The King weighed in his mind whether it would be better to stay and fight or to retreat into the palace and wait out the siege.  He doubted how long the supplies would last if that was his choice, but he also doubted how long his warriors would last if they kept fighting.  Already more than he could count had been taken from the field either dead or wounded.  And then there was the fire.  It was close now and great.  It burned everything in its wake be it tree, elf, or orc.  Thranduil knew without looking that the fire was slowly surrounding them.  And he knew that if they were surrounded, no one would get out alive.  He hesitated only a moment before calling out the order to retreat at the top of his voice.  All around him, commanders took up the call and warriors fell back.  Some lifted the wounded or the bodies of the dead to bear back to the palace.  Thranduil kept his eyes on the orcs.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw an orc with a torch move towards the bridge.  Others saw this too and moved to waylay him, but they were too late and the orc threw the torch.  The bridge burst into flame.

***

To be continued…


	4. Death of a Princess

Title: Battle Beneath the Trees

Author: Cúdae

Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's brilliant and beautiful creations as my own.

Author's Note: There are only about one or two more chapters of this story and possibly an epilogue (which I am undecided about) left.  Also, I am writing a companion story to this one to clear up some of the things about Harndor and Tirn.  Enjoy.

Warnings: Violence, death, and a possibly disturbing reaction to death

Chapter Four: Death of a Princess

***

The bridge had fallen and with it, the last true hope for the warriors caught on the southern side of the river.  The King looked about him, careful not to let show his dismay.  The orcs wasted no time in closing in on their prey and immediately began driving the elves back into the water.  Some swam and struggled to the other bank, others stood their ground and died before the orcs, still others floundered in the water and were swept away.  Thranduil knew he was being pushed back towards the river despite his valiant efforts in the fight.  Suddenly, his foot did not hit ground, but water.  Forgetting his attacker, he sought to gain a foothold in the churning waters and then to cross taking as many as he could with him.  

The feat was easier said than done.  Every moment, a new warrior fell into the river.  The once clear waters were turned red by the blood of the dead and the wounded.  Too many were fighting to reach dry land.  Too many were dying as they tried.  The King saw a boy, too young to be fighting as a warrior, thrashing about in the water as he tried to come across.  The sight struck a paternal chord within the King of Mirkwood and he abandoned his own plight to reach the boy.  He grasped him by one of his flailing arms and lifted him above the current with surprising ease.  Somehow, not even Thranduil himself knew, he found a way across the river.  He set the gasping boy down and looked at him for a moment before waving him off.  The boy said nothing and Thranduil recognized him as one of the eastern villagers.  

***

The healer commanded a girl nearby to watch over his patient while he tended the more serious wounds of a warrior just staggering in.  The girl bent over the burnt warrior.  The burns he suffered did not appear to be as bad as they looked.  She saw the knife in his hand and gently unclasped his fingers and took the blade from him.  She could not stifle a gasp of astonishment as she looked at the knife for a moment before setting it down.  The knife she held in her hand was the knife her own brother had pressed into her friend's hand as the orcs razed their homes and the elves of the city came charging in.  Inscribed on the hilt was her brother's name.  The blade was sharp.  Where had he found it?  Surely her friend had not survived.  She shook her head and placed the knife off to the side, at the same time pushing the terrible memories of the last desperate fight for her home out of her mind.

***

He woke and all around he saw death.  His mind raced.  Where was he?  What had happened?  Nearby he saw the body of someone he thought he knew, but the body was covered in blood and a grim healer was covering it with a cloak.  Suddenly, he became keenly aware of his own injuries and panicked.  He felt instantly that he was to die.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the healer drape the last of the cloak over the body beside him.  Then all went dark and he saw no more than the eyes of the dead see.  He knew only voices of fever.

He lay in a fevered sleep tormented by phantoms that taunted him and tantalized him and frightened him above all.  _Remember your father and your sister_, they said,_ killed at the hands of orcs when you stood by useless_.  They bade him wake and go to his mother.  She was dying they said.  He cried out, but his voice was lost in the darkness.  Over and over he saw images of the dead hand he had taken the knife from and the head of Cúmaen on the branch.  In his mind, he reeled and screamed for someone to help him.  He felt fire all around him, burning him to ashes.  _Sacrifice your life!_  The phantoms ordered him.  _The King is dead and the Queen with him!  The Crown Prince denied the throne and Legolas is seen in his rotting face!_  Again he screamed and cried out for the voices to stop, but they did not.  Instead they only laughed and told him more of the destruction of the Woodland Realm.  

***  

Thranduil saw that not all was well on this side of the river and saw also the need for a commander.  Some orcs had crossed the river, but most that tried drowned.  The ones that successfully reached the opposite bank were fought by enraged elves—many of whom were guards from the palace newly come into the fray.  For a moment, Thranduil was at a loss.  He saw the warriors trying to come through the angry waters and he saw the orcs kicking the dead into the waters.  He heard the screams and cries and threats and curses.  He smelt the water and the blood and the sweat and the tears.  He saw, too, the ever approaching flames even as they spread through the treetops.  And he saw the healers fleeing into the palace with their patients.

He could not let his warriors, his healers, his artisans, and his children suffer without hope or strength at the hands of orcs.  At the top of his voice he bellowed above the noise and mess of the fight, "RETREAT!"  This time it did not simply mean stop pressing forward, it meant, "Get inside the palace as fast as you can."  Already, the magical door swung open and servants' doors and side doors were shoved open—and some off the hinges—to allow the warriors in to safety. For a brief second, Thranduil looked about him and searched the faces for either of his sons.  But they were not there.  

*** 

The women, children, guards, healers, wounded warriors, and others knew what was happening the moment they heard the battle move to the other side of the river.  Now the opening of the doors and the warriors rushing in confirmed it.  Mothers, sisters, wives and daughters ran to meet their loved ones and too often they fell back, tears welling in their eyes, as their champion did not enter the palace.  Leithian stood ever by the magical door, waiting and wishing for her husband to return to her.  But he did not come.  And soon she fell back among the others.  But her sorrow was greater and she desired life no more, so she ran from the hall and out into the fight.  She ignored the protests of other women and warriors coming in.  She ran through the violence and to the edge of the river.  There she cried out, "Sigil, my beloved!  Forgive me for joining you!"  Then she looked at the bloody water and cried out to it, "I will break my body and free my soul for him!  Will you take me?"  In an instant, she leapt into the churning waters and was never seen again, save by one.

***

Thranduil found one of his high-ranking commanders, and gave to him the command of the warriors of Mirkwood and the people of the palace.  As for himself, Thranduil gathered from servants and passersby that his wife, Aduial, was in her chamber.  A few people that he passed regarded him with a respectful pity that he had not seen since Tirn was killed.  He was confused by this but paid it little heed and went on to Aduial.  He knocked softly on her door and opened it silently.  Inside he found Aduial sitting on the floor amid the remnants of bed covers.  Tears had left silvery lines on her cheeks.  He saw the knife on the floor beside her.  He did not understand what had happened but went quickly to her and sat beside her on the floor.  He embraced her and asked, "What has happened here?"  Aduial pulled away from him and smiled.  Her smile was terrible.  Thranduil was startled, but said nothing to her.  She said, "Taurost, our son, is dead.  Is it not fine news for such a day?"  Thranduil jerked back as if struck.  Aduial laughed and went on, "My dear Elf-king!  For years uncounted I have waited for this day!  I gave part of my spirit five times with the hope that I would have one child left to me in the end.  But, alas, this was in vain, for now they are all in Mandos."  Thranduil shook his head and caught his wife's wrist.  "This is lunacy," he said to her.  But Aduial only smiled and nodded.  Thranduil looked at her with despair for he truly thought that his wife had lost her sanity in her grief.  Then Aduial laughed again and said to Thranduil, "My husband, do you not understand?  My children are dead or dying!  But it is wonderful, is it not?  It is lovely, this death!  Flames and fire and fear and blood!  I have never known such bliss."  Thranduil was horrified at Aduial's words.  He was convinced now that Aduial was insane.  "You," he said, "are mad.  Quite mad."  Then he stood and took the knife, and promised to return later.  But Aduial only smiled at him.  Thranduil left, horrified and confused by his wife's behavior.  

***

            He woke again inside the palace.  The healer and the girl were both gone.  He heard muffled shouts and cries and sobs.  In beds and on blankets on the floor were other wounded soldiers like him.  Though he could barely move without much pain and burning, he saw that the person next to him on the right was also burnt and on the left, the warrior's head was bandaged and his clothes bloodstained.  On of the volunteers helping the healers was coming around, checking on each in turn and answering their half-delirious questions concerning their families and the realm.  When she reached him, she saw that he was conscious and asked if he needed anything.  He shook his head with a movement so small that it could have been easily missed.  But as she started to move away, he used all his strength and caught her arm.  She turned back to look at him and he asked, "What has happened?"  He was surprised at how hoarse his own voice was.  She answered quietly, "The fighters have come inside the palace and the Queen has locked herself away.  The Crown Prince—" She vainly tried to disguise a sob as a cough.  "The Crown Prince," she continued, "is no more."  He shut his eyes.  So the realm was to be laid waste.

            He fell into an restless, yet strangely peaceful, sleep in which he dreamt of his mother, father, and sister.  He dreamt of his family walking through the beech woods and coming to the pinewoods that surrounded Harndor.  He dreamt of the music and of the dancers and of the days before he knew what an orc was.  He dreamt of that thing called peace.  It was a distant memory, but he remembered and dreamt of it.  The phantom voices no longer taunted him.  Instead, the strong voice of his King spoke.  His mother sang in her high soprano voice.  He listened as the older warriors told their tales of valor and glory in the Second Age.  His mind was at piece.  But something lingered on the edge of his dream in reality.  Something lingered that he could not place.  

***

A warrior was coming towards the palace at a full run.  He had stayed long outside fighting, but he was overcome and finally had to retreat inside.  He saw a servant woman he knew just inside the door and questioned her saying, "Where is my wife?  Do you know?"  The servant woman shook her head and replied, "No, your Highness, I do not know."  Then he smiled grimly and thanked her.  He went inside to find her.  The warrior went by the name of Sigil.

***

To be continued…


	5. Cry of the Queen

Chapter 5: The Cry of the Queen

Disclaimer: I claim none of Tolkien's creations.

Author's Note: Read the warnings.  This, I regret to inform you, is the last chapter.

Note to chapter 4: I have received some e-mail asking why an elf had to commit suicide if an elf could merely give up his life.  My answer to them and all of you is: To my understanding, Elves were only allowed to give up life because their body was too broken to contain their spirit any longer, grief weighed too heavily on them, or life in Middle-Earth had become like watching a movie over and over again- boring.  I chose a combination of grief and a broken body to suit Leithian.  I chose a violent suicide because Leithian was meant to be going mad in her grief and probably would not have thought of the less violent ways to end her life.  In other words, she was going crazy.  

Warnings:  War violence and death.

Chapter 5: The Cry of the Queen

***

            Sigil made his way to the great hall of the palace where many were gathered.  They were listening to the tales the warriors had to tell and to the news that the King brought.  He did not see Leithian's face among those gathered.  A woman came up to him and bowed then she told him what had befallen the Princess.  For a moment he stood composed, then he let the tears fall from his eyes.  He would have to tell the Queen.

***

The queen rose silently.  Her madness had passed.  Now, though, she was afraid.  The palace was besieged and all the people of Mirkwood were trapped within it.  Her mind was clear.  She pushed back her grief and stood with the dignity of a true queen.  She combed her hair and straightened her gown.  She moved through the mess of her room as though it did not exist.  Her dark eyes and her dark hair matched the shadows in the corners.  Her gown showed only the smallest signs that it had ever been wrinkled.  Her eyes had dried and her face was no longer pale.  She was again the calm and beautiful Queen of the Woodland Realm.  

            Aduial had seen much in her life.  She had come from a small southern village into Oropher's palace as a handmaid to the Queen.  She left behind her family to take the opportunity to serve under King Oropher.  She had never again seen or heard from her kin.  She had come into the Queen's service with only knowledge of how to survive orc raids and how to weave warm cloaks and blankets.  The King and Queen educated her.  She became literate in three languages.  They gave her fine clothes and jewelry.  They treated her as though she was their own child.  Their last gift to her was indeed their only child, Thranduil.  She fell in love with him and his majesty.  She feared for him when he went to battle at the end of the Second Age alongside his father and she cried for him when he returned a sorrowful king with a third of the warriors Mirkwood had given to him.  

            All her life she had known sorrow and fear.  There had been brief times of peace and briefer times of true joy.  She was beloved by her people for many reasons, not the least being her calmness in the face of despair.  When Dol Guldur rose again in horrible power and spiders again disrupted feasts, she had been the composed face of hope for all the people of the Woodland Realm.  She had made it a priority never to let her people see her frightened.  She made it a priority to teach her children the same.  She taught them to fear, but never to let their fear show.  She taught them that they were fools if they were fearless.  She taught them to fear power and fear darkness and fear fear.  And now, Tirn, Taurost, and Legolas were gone.  Tirn, the laughing watcher, had been stabbed in the back.  Taurost, the strong fortress, had been shot in the back.  Legolas, her little tree-lover, had never returned from a journey to Rivendell.  All of them had been lost to her by that which they most feared.  Tirn and Taurost had feared someone sneaking up from behind since they were small children.  Legolas had always feared losing his way, though Aduial had told him many times that this fear was irrational.  She had nearly gone insane in her crushing grief.  But at the last moment, she remembered her people.  They needed their queen.  She was their queen.

            She left her room and made her way to the great hall of the palace.  Those she passed bowed to her.  Others turned away.  Still others sent her the pitying gaze she disliked so much.  She continued past them all, wishing to see her husband, her daughter, and her one remaining son.  She too wished to see the face of Sigil, Leithian's husband.  And as she approached the great hall she saw him.  Tears were streaming down his face.  He knelt before Aduial when she came up to him.  Aduial said, "Sigil, my son, what has happened that has so grieved you?"  Sigil raised his head to look at her and replied, "My Queen, my mother, Leithian is gone."  Aduial did not need to ask what he meant, she knew.  Her daughter too had been taken from her.  She did not weep, she did not even bow her head in sorrow.  She retained her dignity.  Thranduil came toward her slowly.  Sadness was etched in his face and it pained her to see it.  But she did not falter.  She knew that others were in the hall and watching them.  She knew that they had their own grievances this day. She would not burden them with her own.  Instead she did the unexpected.  She called out to all the people gathered there in the hall.  She said to them, "I shall not let this realm be destroyed.  I shall not let the memory of my children and of your children be destroyed.  I shall not let more harm be done to my people than has already been done.  With these thoughts alone, I will take up my son's bow and my son's sword and fight."  She was not finished, but she had no chance to complete her statements.  The people of the Woodland Realm rallied to their Queen and took up her thoughts and added their own.  They would not let their memories, their families, and their homes be destroyed in flames set by filthy creatures.  

***

            He was not healed and he should have been asleep.  But how could he sleep when he heard the warriors rushing about to gather weapons?  How could he rest while others hurried to form their ranks to go to battle?  And how could he hope to drift away from the world as worried thoughts plagued him?  He listened to the comings and goings of the people in the corridors.  In his heart he knew that this was the final battle.  Whether they were destroyed or whether they survived would be determined this day.  His heart ached to be with them.  He felt useless lying burnt.  A thought struck him.  He was not so hurt that he was lying on his deathbed.  He rose.  Pain surged through him and his body burnt.  For a moment he doubted what he was doing, but for only a moment.  His mind was set.  He pulled on his tunic, biting his lip against the pain and burning and ignoring the blood that flowed where his charred skin had torn.  He looked at the warrior next to him; he was quite asleep.  He did not know the man.  He felt the slightest pang of regret as he took the man's sword.  He girt it on himself and straightened up.  Pain racked his body, but he stood proud.  He left the room, ignoring the shouts of a healer.  

            He joined the soldiers regrouping.  Someone ushered him over to a group of warriors under the command of the King.  He took his place in the ranks without looking at the people on either side of him.  He knew they were watching him.  He knew he should have been resting.  He knew that he was foolish to be there, but he could not turn back.  He felt that he had to fight.  It was no longer a war between the forces of good and evil or the Elves and Dol Guldur.  It was a war between him and whoever wanted to kill him.  It was a war between the trees and ground that held them.  It was a war between dark storm clouds and white fair weather clouds.  As he stood ready to move alongside the best warriors of the Woodland Realm, all the pain he felt and all the thoughts that troubled him were second to his will.  He wanted to avenge his father and sister.  He wanted to protect his mother.  He wanted his home to be safe from orcs forever.  The thing he wanted most, though, was to live.

***

            The Queen came to the warriors as they were to set out and face their adversaries again.  She had sword and bow ready.  Both weapons were Taurost's.  She wore a scarlet gown and her hair was pulled back from her face in the manner of the women of the southern villages.  Thranduil regarded her silently and she him.  She joined the ranks of warriors preparing themselves for battle.  Not one word was spoken against her joining.  

            The King gave the command to leave the safety of the palace and fight the creatures of darkness.

***

            He knew he was too weak to fight properly, but he did what he could.  Another warrior was by his side constantly as if they were one person.  He realized that he was only alive because the other was fighting to protect him.  The realization embarrassed him and he was quick to use all his strength to fight off an orc alone.  But that act weakened him and the other had to defend him while he regained his strength.  He now understood just how much of a fool he truly was.  A fellow warrior was in danger because of him.  He was in danger himself because of his weakened state.  As his breath and strength returned, he no longer even felt the pain of the burns anymore--it was simply part of him.  

            The sky was dark.  Long shadows protected their enemies.  The fight went on forever, with more orcs always coming and more spiders after them.  Flames licked the trees and the houses and the palace.  The sun never rose and clouds rolled across the sky.  Rain poured from the clouds and struck the faces of the fighters.  Time passed, but did not move at all.  He fought until he was spent and then he roused himself and fought again.  He did not know what day it was or how long he had labored in the rain against Dol Guldur.  He did not know where he was in the forest anymore.  He had long since lost sight of the king.  Some said that Thranduil was dead.  Others said that he had gone south, far south, to meet the forces of Lothlorien.  He almost laughed.  Why would Lorien send help to the north?  What could Lorien do to help them?  Lothlorien did not have the strength of warriors that Mirkwood needed.  The Dwarves of Erebor and the Men of Dale had been more help in the east than Lorien in the south.  He neglected to think of the strength that was within Lothlorien that could not be counted by heads.  

            It seemed as though days had gone by, for indeed they had, when light in the darkness shone.  Something strange happened to the remaining warriors and something stranger happened to the remaining orcs.  For all the long lulls there had been in battle and all the fearful orcs the warriors had encountered, nothing so strange as this had occurred.  Far in the south a light blazed in the sky.  Strength again pulsed in the veins of the fighters and they no longer despaired.  The Shadow left their hearts.  The orcs were suddenly filled with fear at the sight of their strong foes.  They fled before them, but were pursued and destroyed.  A great wind rushed through the trees and whipped at the warriors.  It pushed the darkness before it and when it passed, the forest was again clean.  

            Some stood without any movement and looked to the sky.  Others shouted and cried joyfully.  In the palace, the weavers and the potters, the wounded and the lame, the horses and the dogs, came out to see what was happening.  In the forest near the palace, the Queen stood as one frozen.  She forgot her dignity and let a slow smile spread across her face.  Fear was lifted from her.  She felt the spirits of her deceased children at ease and knew at last that Legolas had not been lost and that he was alive and would return.  She laughed aloud and it was joyful laughter, not the laughter of her earlier madness.  All would be well.

            But there were some who would not see the great joy the fall of Sauron and the destruction of Dol Guldur would bring.  He stood leaning on his sword under the trees.  All around him was happiness.  There would be no more fighting; their homes would be safe.  They could rebuild what was destroyed.  The burns that he had were flaming and his breath was failing him.  He let himself fall to the floor of the forest.  The last battles had been too much for his body.  He knew what was happening to him.  Another saw him fall and came to him, but he could nothing but answer his question.  He asked, "How long have we been fighting?"  The other answered, "Days, days and nights and weeks."  He asked, "What day is it today?"  The other answered sadly, "The New Year."  But he was not sad; he was peaceful.  His home was safe from the evil that had plagued it.  He knew his mother was safe.  He knew the King lived.  He knew the realm was no longer in danger.  He died on the floor of the forest and his spirit escaped the flaming body.  

***

            _"…Celeborn came forth and led the host of Lorien over Anduin in many boats.  They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits, and the forest was cleansed.  In the North also there had been war and evil.  The realm of Thranduil was invaded, and there had been long battle under the trees and great ruin of fire; but in the end Thranduil had the victory.  And on the New Year of the Elves, Celeborn and Thranduil met in the midst of the forest; and they renamed Mirkwood _Eryn Lasgalen_, the Wood of Greenleaves."  _

_--Appendix B, the Tale of Years, the Great Years_   


End file.
